


Do YOU Believe In Santa Claus, Doctor?

by WyvernQuill



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: ...of a sort., Christmas, Crack, F/M, Humor, Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by comic, Misunderstandings, River Ships It, River Song Doesn't Believe In Monogamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: Companionpiece (see what I did there?) to my Christmas comic, 'Do You Believe In Santa Claus?'.Brought to you by somewhat-popular demand and an idle evening or two, can be read without prior knowledge of said comic.The Doctor had hadexpectationswhen it came to Missy and Christmas.He'dexpectedher to mock the people of earth for coming up with such a whimsical, idiotic holiday.To make some cynical - yet brilliantly inspired - comments about religion and the feast's true origins, refuse to take part in any and all traditions if not sabotage a handful, and finally demand more and better presents no matter what he got her.It was, as the Doctor had already resigned himself to in the privacy of his mind, going to be Easter all over again.





	Do YOU Believe In Santa Claus, Doctor?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Do You Believe In Santa Claus?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17175173) by [WyvernQuill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill). 



> Not quite season-appropriate anymore, but if the alternative is waiting an entire year...
> 
> Thank you to all the lovely people who commented on the source comic! I've extended on the plot quite a bit so this should still be enjoyable for you guys to read.

Nobody was more surprised than the Doctor, really, when Missy took to Christmas like a sea devil to water and eradicating humanity.

(Or, well, like Missy herself to eradicating about ten percent of humanity, but getting her to move past her decimating days had sort of been the point of introducing her to life-affirming, kindness-centered holidays like Christmas in the first place, so the Doctor would really rather avoid that comparison.)

He'd expected her to mock the people of earth for coming up with such a whimsical, idiotic holiday. To make some cynical - yet brilliantly inspired - comments about religion and the feast's _true_ origins, refuse to take part in any and all traditions if not sabotage a handful, and finally demand more and better presents no matter what he got her.  
It was, as the Doctor had already resigned himself to in the privacy of his mind, going to be Easter all over again.

 

Only, when he'd finally considered himself ready for the emotional turmoil of having his closest friend mercilessly badmouth his favourite holiday - well, perhaps second-favourite, there was this lovely harmony festival at the Eye of Orion - and prepared some counter-arguments for the religious discussion, Missy had once more proven that even people who had known each other for most of their regeneration(s) could still surprise each other, and reacted with an entirely unexpected 'yes please'.

In so many words, of course, but with an enthusiasm he hadn't seen on her since he'd gotten her a Tamagotchi in the 90s, which, considering how that had gone (had to take it away again after she somehow turned it into a rabid beast in the span of three months and seventeen days) filled him with an uncertain sense of suspicious dread.

He'd been waiting for the other shoe-of-evilness to drop ever since, but Missy... Missy behaved herself.

She seemed genuinely interested in any and all Christmas stories and legends, kept rehearsing carols on her piano, somehow got the nourishment unit of the Vault to provide her with heaps of Christmas cookies - which she _offered to share with him!_ \- and when the Doctor finally caved and let blunted safety scissors enter the Vault, she didn't even try to stab him with them - well, not more than once or twice - and instead sat herself down to peacefully cut out a garland of angels that turned out looking only _barely_ demonic.

To be entirely honest, this downright _jolly_ mood unsettled him only the tiniest bit. Her attitude to the Vault-imprisonment shtick and his attempts at redemption therapy had so far been all over the Kübler-Ross model, tearful Depression one day and manipulative Bargaining the next, and bouts of rather bite-y Anger in between, but Acceptance...

That was a new one.

 

Ultimately, the Doctor had decided to stop being a paranoid bastard after he'd spent most of December spying on her innocently humming 'Santa Claus Is Coming To Town' while doing her best to build him a present (hopefully that quantum ray generator he'd always wanted!) from the limited supplies the Vault provided, and just take this uncharacteristic yuletide goodwill at face value.

Might as well encourage this step in the right direction, and if it all went to hell anyways he'd at least have some pleasant memories - and maybe a quantum ray generator - to show for it.

So he'd gone out to buy a Christmas tree, roped Nardole into dragging it to the Vault, and stood by with a strangely fuzzy feeling in his hearts as he watched Missy put baubles (plastic and therefore harmless) and other decoration that couldn't possibly be weaponised on it with childlike glee.

Once Christmas Eve rolled around, he was nearly prepared to introduce her to the concept of mistletoe, which he'd previously omitted due to its poisonous nature (and because Nardole might've accused him of ulterior motives), so things were evidently going swimmingly, until...

Until he stepped into the Vault bearing presents to put under the tree - Mary Poppins sheet music for electric guitar and piano, a bracelet with darkstar alloy inlay to go with her brooch, a scarf of considerable length in hues of dark purple and black (which, perhaps, implied the possibility of a little stroll together on some quiet winter night) - and found her rigging up a... snare of some sort beside the Christmas tree.

Perhaps, the Doctor hoped desperately, she had mice in the Vault and wanted to keep them from nibbling the gift wrappers? Or this was a non-nefarious snare of holiday happiness...?

Anything that didn't imply a relapse into villainy would be great right now, thank you very much.

 

The Doctor steeled himself. "Missy?" He tried to hit a safe balance between 'not suspecting you of anything, just asking' and 'the game is up, I know what you're planning!', and watch out for any guilty flinching on her part. "What are you doing there?"

"Hmm?" Missy adjusted the noose around a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. "Isn't it obvious, Doctor? I'm going to succeed where _generations_ of pitiful humans have failed. I will unravel the mystery, accomplish the impossible! I will trap that evasive scoundrel haunting every chimney on earth; free your silly pets from the vigilante justice of the naughty list; yes, my dear Doctor, I, the Mistress, will do good for once - and capture Santa Claus!"

She finished her speech with a dramatic flourish, solemnly gazing out into the middle distance with her head held high, the very image of a hero of the people.

The Doctor snorted. Ah, she was still as funny as she ever was, his dear old friend!

 

...who, come to think of it, was looking awfully _serious_ at the moment.

 

No furtive little giggle, no cheeky wink, not even that slow curling smirk that crept onto her face when she was fibbing.

She couldn't possibly... no, no, ridiculous. Silly thought to have.

No way.

"You're... not being serious." The Doctor deadpanned.

"What?" Missy shot him an incredulous glare that couldn't possibly be fake. _"Of course_ I'm being serious! All those stories you've told me of his reign of terror, time someone did something about it!"

She huffed, a hint of downtrodden disappointment sneaking into her demeanor. "I thought you'd be _pleased."_

Oh _Rassilon._

With the horrifying realisation slowly dawning on him, the Doctor quickly went back through their past conversations on the topic of Santa, surely, _surely_ he had pointed out to her at least _once_ that... or she might've gathered from context...

Oh Rassilon and Omega and whichever other historical Timelords might be used to substitute swears.

He had to sit her down _right bloody now_ and make a few things absolutely clear.

 

"Missy..." He stepped a little closer, scanning the floor for other traps. "Can we talk?"

"I see no evidence to the contrary." She'd already returned to working on the snare. "Shoot."

"Well. Look. First of all, it's normally the safer bet to assume I won't be _entirely_ pleased with anything compromising the freedom of the individual, even if they deserved it. Those are complex matters, Missy, and though I'm _very_ pleased with your progress, your moral compass isn't quite up to the challenge of passing judgement on its own, not yet."

She huffed again, but didn't actually refute any part of that statement.

"And, ah, secondly." _Now for the awkward bit._ "Missy, you. Hum. You _do_ know Santa Claus isn't _real..."_

He glanced over at where she was trying to camouflage the noose of the trap with Christmas tree needles, and his voice began wavering uncertainly.

"...d-don't you...?"

 

Missy hummed agreement... or at least began to, until the Doctor's words sank in and her head snapped around, eyes wide and mildly panicked.

"H-he..." Missy stammered, lower lip wobbling and the Doctor suddenly felt irrationally guilty.

"He's not..." The uncharacteristic wetness in her eyes culminated into a single tear sliding down her cheek.

Goodness gracious. This was as bad as when he'd told Susan that no, she could _not_ be friends with the Toclafane (the little dear had certainly taken after her grandfather in terms of unconventionalness...), because the Toclafane _didn't actually exist,_ he'd checked.

"Santa Claus isn't...!" More tears. Oh dear, the Doctor wasn't good with tears. Why was Missy so weepy lately anyway?

"He's n-not!" Those were practically little rivers pouring down her face. Could the Doctor fix it by offering a handkerchief? (If he remembered Clara, perhaps the Doctor would try to recall some of what she'd referred to as the 'how to be a decent person' note cards, but the Doctor didn't remember Clara, so that was that.)

"SANTA CLAUS ISN'T REAL!" Missy nothing short of wailed, and collapsed in a heap of despondent misery.

The Doctor's hearts did what they always did when somebody cried in front of them, and firmly suggested he do something about it, or they would be forced to shatter right here and now, and where would the Doctor be without them, huh?

His brain sent back the very sound counterargument that she was upset about the nonexistence of somebody she had gleefully planned to trap and do who-knows-what with only a few moments ago, and this situation did _not_ warrant the same reaction as an innocent child weeping in distress; to which his hearts responded by cracking threateningly.

All very standard protocol up to here, not as if this was the first time she dissolved into tears before his eyes.

 

Usually, the Doctor had no choice but to let his stubborn hearts go ahead and break - see if he cared - because there was really nothing he could _do_ when Missy cried.

The guilt she was experiencing over her past cruelties was entirely justified, and not only would the Doctor sabotage her journey towards redemption if he comforted her through it, he also felt like that would belittle the victims of her murderous tendencies, so he stood by and left her to it.

(He might also cite any other reason he could think of, whichever let him sleep at night while Missy was sitting alone in that empty Vault, bawling her eyes out, and the shattered remains of his hearts where uncomfortably poking into his respiratory system.)

This time, however, her breakdown had nothing to do with killing someone, past villainies, evil impulses, not even a harmless spot of thievery, none of that. Just more-or-less innocent dreams of capturing Santa Claus being mercilessly crushed.

That, the Doctor promptly decided, he could work with.

"Oh, Missy..." He quickly gathered her up in his arms before his hearts could break any further, letting her sob against his chest while keeping one eye on where he _knew_ she'd hidden a sharpened piece of gingerbread in her corset. Never hurt to be too careful, usually just the opposite. "Hush now, no tears."

Missy, contrary as ever, seemed to be more in favour of 'yes tears', and proceeded to live by her philosophies.

"Er..." The Doctor racked his brain for something - _anything_ \- he could say to comfort her, but came up with a blank. Only went to show what happens if one refuses all opportunities at honing one's comforting skills, until one is finally in a position to use them and finds they're virtually nonexistent for lack of practise.

 

(Clara was just lounging in her American-diner-TARDIS when she was struck with the sudden inexplicable urge to shove a pack of note cards into the nearest elderly person's hands. She wasn't overly much surprised, it was a somewhat common occurrence, so all she did - as always - was telling Me that the Doctor was being insufferable again, somewhere and somewhen, and then they had a good laugh about it together.)

 

The one thing the Doctor was certain he couldn't do was let her go on believing a lie. As much as it was hurting her now, ultimately, she had to-

Missy sobbed once more against his chest, and the Doctor re-evaluated his reasoning.

"Y-you didn't let me finish!" He quickly babbled. "Not real...-ly going to fall for such a simple trap, is what I meant to say. He's very clever, Santa Claus is, because he exists, yes he does, but just a length of rope won't hold him, I'm afraid."

Come to think of it, the Toclafane-thing with Susan had panned out very similarly. When he'd last asked her about it, she'd still been expectantly waiting for the Toclafane to write her back.

"Me, well, yes, maybe, I'm very easy to trap, which is how I know you weren't _really_ trying back in the day, but Santa, oh, you need to step up your game for him!"

Missy wasn't full-out bawling anymore, but her breath was still hitching, so the Doctor swallowed, and decided what the hell, he'd just go for it, and sod the consequences until one such time when his dearest friend was smiling again.

"We could, er, try together! Yes, that's it, build a proper trap together, how does that sound? I insist on no-kill, but there could be an immobilising field... and synaptic shockers, you like synaptic shockers, don't you?"

Missy let out a pitiable sniff of agreement.

"I might even stretch to a spot of tissue compression technology! How about it, hm?"

She pulled back a little, ineffectively dabbing at her cheeks. "I-I'd like that."

"Wonderful!" The Doctor grinned. "You and me together, we're _guaranteed_ to catch the old rascal!"

In for a penny, in for a pound, even though his mental voice of reason - also dubbed his 'inner Nardole' - strongly counseled against it. " _I_ _promise."_

 

Missy met his eyes, and there was something eerily familiar in them, which the Doctor seemed to remember from the good old days with River, or Rose on occasion, and definitely Jack Harkness, all the time and with everyone. Perhaps even Missy herself, he certainly felt like there had been looks like this back at the Academy, and later, when they were having a fencing duel or...

Oh. _Oh._

Well. _That_ was a new way to look at these altercations, certainly.

If he had some time later, he might contemplate properly what a certain _interest_ in his person on the Master's part implied when it came to their past clashes, but for now he had Missy to deal with, who was looking at him as if she might like to crack his chest open and live inside it - which he might even let her do, as long as they were metaphorically speaking, which was _not_ a given with her - and the entire Santa-trapping mess after that, which he just _knew_ was going to come back to bite him one day. Just like the sharpened gingerbread, she just _had_ to be holding on to that for a reason.

Then Missy pounced - very literally - landing on top of him with a squeal that was half enthusiasm and half pain - they were both getting on in years, after all, and their bone structure a tad fragile and no longer suited to pouncing - and after that, the Doctor's brain bid a fond farewell to conscious thought and merely leaned back to enjoy the goings-on.

(Once he had subtly liberated that blasted piece of gingerbread from her person, that was. Precautions and all that. Besides, he'd been in the process of removing her corset anyway, so the whole affair had been rather win-win.)

 

* * *

 

 

It was all none of Nardole's business, really.

He prided himself on being discreet - well, the type of discreet that politely informed you it disapproved, sir, and must strongly protest, before melting quietly into the background and leaving you to your own devices with only the occasional reminder of its displeasure - a vital skill if one worked for the most infamous criminal in the galaxy, and being handed down to said criminal's husband hadn't exactly made it any less worth having.

No, Nardole knew very well what he should make his business, and what he should shove into the back of his mind and never ever waste another thought on.

The fact that it was well past midnight and the Doctor still hadn't emerged from the Vault would normally fall into the former category, but when Nardole had consulted the TARDIS on readings from within - mostly to see if the Doctor was still alive - it had offered results that implied they were, well...

It was _none_ of Nardole's business.

In fact, Doctor Song had left clear instructions with him on the matter of the Doctor in relation to the Mistress. Or Master, whichever happened to be the case.

She, being an inordinately wise woman who didn't put much stock in monogamy, had known very well who might bring the Doctor a modicum of happiness should she herself not be in a position to, and firmly told Nardole he was _not_ to let her silly husband execute his schoolboy crush, and, even if he could not bring himself to actively bang their heads together - as Doctor Song had implied she herself gladly would - at least turn a blind eye to any dalliances, and _not_ make any comment that would throw her really-very-stupid husband into a spiral of vehement self-denial.

That last one had been a doozy, truth be told, but Nardole was still a discreet kind of fellow, and so he let the Doctor carry on giving Missy pianos and Christmas trees without once questioning the intent behind these gifts, or pointing out what a spectacularly bad idea it was to woo your (ex-)nemesis.

Sometimes, he wondered if the Doctor was even consciously aware of doing it at all, but _it was none of Nardole's business,_ so he'd never asked.

Therefore, Nardole made himself a cuppa - with a shot of coffee for flavour - and vehemently thought of anything that _wasn't_ whatever was going on in that bloody Vault at the moment.

 

Sadly, no matter how discreet, Nardole also had a tendency to worry. Intensely so.

Over the course of the night, he began gravitating closer and closer to the Vault doors, obsessively having the TARDIS check and re-check the Doctor's vitals, which at least seemed to have petered out after those spikes of, a-hem, activity, and fretting ceaselessly.

And when the clock began approaching the morning hours on Christmas Day, he took a deep breath, carefully trained his eyes towards the ceiling - where he really hoped nothing incriminating could be seen, except one never knew with the two most mercurial beings in the universe involved ( _with each other, lord have mercy..._ ) - and crept into the Vault.

It was quiet, at least. Small blessings.

The false windows were on nighttime mode, soft flurries of snow dancing outside rather than the greyish sludge that reality had to offer - which Nardole privately thought rather unfair, that Missy had a nicer view than upstanding citizens did - and the lights were noticeably dimmed.

Nardole risked a glance downwards, always ready to clamp a hand over his eyes should they encounter something unsavoury, but all he could see was the Christmas tree which he'd helped the Doctor drag down here - he was still picking needles out of his (invisible) hair - with its lights glowing softly in the far corner.

He crept a little closer.

"Nardole?"

Nardole squeaked in a very badass and manly fashion, and reflexively screwed his eyes shut before he saw things that could not possibly be unseen.

"What are you doing in here?" The Doctor asked, in his usual crossly scottish way, and considering he could hear the rustling of clothing, Nardole thought it safe to risk a peek.

The Doctor was... well, at least he was wearing all the _elements_ of his usual outfit, though his shirt was half unbuttoned, his hair ruffled, and there were smears of lipstick... _everywhere._

He also seemed to be missing his shoes and wearing two mismatched socks - which, granted, had been the case before, only it had been a different, equally mismatched pair - and Nardole experienced a brief moment of mortification until he realised that that was, in fact, a sharpened piece of gingerbread in the Doctor's pocket, and he wasn't _quite_ so happy to see him.

"I-was-just-only-wanted-to-simply-" Nardole squeaked, trying desperately to distract his brain from contemplating what had occured here to leave the Doctor sitting in this noticeably _rumpled_ state in front of the Christmas tree, and...

Huh.

Nardole wasn't one for kink-shaming, he really wasn't - truth be told, he himself had been known to try out some _adventurous_ things between the sheets, like leaving the lights... not _on,_ no, but dimmed - except, this... this _device_ was certainly in a league of its own.

There was a sort of snare, but also immobilising fields, synaptic shockers, what seemed to be modified tissue compression technology, and Nardole didn't even want to _think_ about the bear trap, or what purpose it could possibly serve during, er, a congress of more than merely minds, if the esteemed reader catches his drift.

(Nardole was painfully reminded of the time he'd found the Box of Strange Devices among Doctor Song's possessions, and had spent a long while puzzling over possible uses for the contents until she and the Doctor came back from their nighttime stroll to the Singing Towers, and both turned near-identical shades of red - though more flushed in her case - upon seeing the Box, and the less said about that affair of utter mortification, the better.)

 

"It's the present that puzzles me." The Doctor interrupted his panicked ramblings, which Nardole didn't mind overly much, not like they'd been going anywhere productive. "It all makes sense - inasmuch as anything she does ever makes sense, of course - _except the present!_ " He huffed, prodding the carefully-wrapped and neatly-tied-with-a-bow parcel resting beside the Doctor's own three shoddily-covered gifts.

"Do _you_ intend on making sense anytime soon, sir?" Nardole inquired politely, because tactful sassy was more or less his default mode, and all he could manage while feverishly working on having his brain consider anything _not_ related to the Doctor, the Mistress, or the Mysterious Device Under the Tree.

The Doctor just carried on rambling, as he was wont to do in such cases, absentmindedly trying to wipe away a smear of lipstick on his cuffs and only succeeding in smearing it further.

"I can see how she would think Santa Claus was worth capturing, and preparing the cookies and the carols and the decoration to lure him in, that's all perfectly reasonable."

Sometimes, Nardole wondered if the words 'reason' and 'sense' meant something entirely different in Gallifreyan.

"But the present!" The Doctor sighed wistfully. "It's a quantum ray generator, Nardole. I've _always_ wanted one of those. Missy worked tirelessly on the perfect gift, except in every story I told her, it's Santa who brings presents to good people. If anything, a package for me already being under the tree should endanger her entire scheme, why would she do such a thing!?"

The spectre of Doctor Song sighed fondly and with only a hint of exasperation at Nardole's back, and then proceeded to needle his conscience until he had to seriously reconsider his firm stance of benevolent noninterference in all things Missy.

 _Some situations are just too stupid to be allowed to continue,_ he remembered, and, rare as it was, he had to agree with the Doctor on that.

Sending a very put-upon sigh to whichever corner of reality River Song still existed in, Nardole pointedly e-hem'd and discreetly indicated the tag on the present.

And if that wasn't enough, well, he'd tried, and couldn't be blamed for the Doctor being boneheaded.

"'For the Doctor, with love from Missy'." The Doctor read aloud. "So what?"

Nardole e-hem'd again, making a vague gesture that maybe could've been a heart if one squinted, put their head to one side, and had taken a hallucinogenic drug or two.

The Doctor blinked, uncomprehending.

"For the Doctor, with _**LOVE**_ from Missy." Nardole repeated, stressing the relevant word as much as was humanly - cyborgly - possible. He was truly going above and beyond his Song-appointed duty, they better all be grateful.

Now _there_ was the spark of dawning realisation; bless, they got there in the end.

And then something else hushed over the Doctor's face, something that might hint at him having an emotion. An actual emotion! That Nardole lived to see the day...

"Oh, _Missy."_ He said, very softly, and in that way he had when the Dalek-destroying button was on the console right in front of him; or the alien monster tripped over its own blood-sucking tentacles; or a human did something so pure and good and _human_ that it took his breath away; or generally when he was simply extraordinarily pleased with the universe and how it was treating him at the moment.

 

"Right!" The Doctor suddenly jumped up, wobbling a little - _and it was none of Nardole's business why the Doctor winced a little when having to move his pelvic joints_ \- and pointlessly attempted to smooth down his creased lapels. "I'll go and... and... sleep, I think, yes."

He started off towards the Vault's bedroom.

"Alone. By myself. I'm very tired. You might want to leave, Nardole, Missy gets rather vocal. When I sleep somewhere-not-in-her-bed, and definitely-not-with-her-or-anything, you understand."

Nardole blanched slightly. "Righty-ho!" He squeaked. "Taking the TARDIS on a trip to New Zealand and sometime well past the Christmas hols, gotcha, sir."

 

"Oh. Er." The Doctor stopped in his tracks, with the air of one who has just tripped over the wrench about to be thrown into all their plans. "Sound idea, Nardole, but, well... I might need you to do something for me, first."

"Yes, sir...?" _Please be something innocuous and non-traumatising._

"See, I might've... made a promise without really thinking it through. To Missy. And I knew it was going to come back to bite me one day, I just didn't quite realise it would be _this_ day. Christmas morning. So, if you'd be so kind..." The Doctor took a deep breath, and then spoke at quite some speed, as if Nardole would be guaranteed to agree if he could just sneak the idea past him quickly enough.

 _"Please just put on a Santa costume and step into that bear trap over there, thankyousomuchNardoleyou'rethebest._ "

Nardole blinked.

"No." He said, in the politest way he could manage while still communicating an undercurrent of 'bugger off'.

"You can have gingerbread!" The Doctor tried desperately, offering a piece with one wickedly serrated edge and the other uncommonly sharp.

_"No."_

"Please?"

"Sir, with the utmost respect, I will _not_ be involved in... in you and Missy's _games!"_

That, in accordance with Nardole's personal philosophy, was _definitely_ where loyalty, discreet politeness, and even promises to Doctor Song all met their end.

"I will see you on Epiphany." Nardole bowed stiffly, and then made sure he got the hell out of the Vault and as far away from the Doctor, Missy, and That Strange Device as he could, in terms of spacial _and_ temporal coordinates. "Enjoy your quantum ray generator. And your _'sleep'."_

"But how will I fool Missy into continuing to believe Santa Claus is real if you don't help me!?" The Doctor was calling after him. "Nardole!"

Just before he slammed the Vault doors shut, Nardole thought he could hear a faint, still-slightly-sleepy voice saying "fool me into _what,_ Doctor?", but _it was REALLY none of his business,_ so he slipped into the TARDIS and left them to it.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's that!
> 
> Happy no-longer-Holidays, do let me in a comment know what you thougt of this!  
> I thrive on feedback, positive or otherwise... and I love discussing headcanons etc.!
> 
> (I realise that, logically, Missy should have spent enough time around humans to at least be passingly familiar with the concept of Christmas traditions, just like the Doctor has actually encountered Santa/references encounters, but let's just chalk that up to artistic license and this all being whatever random insanities I can come up with, shall we?)


End file.
